Maelstrom
by Ryeloza
Summary: Leaving is easier than finding his way back.  AU. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **_Desperate Housewives_ absolutely is not mine, and I'm not doing any of this for profit.

**Story Summary: **Leaving is easier than finding his way back. Spoilers for the finale. Rated M for language and sexual content.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part I**

**i.**

He buys cereal that doesn't promise him a healthy heart and eats it out of a too-white bowl with a spoon that will never be the child's one he had to settle for because the dishwasher hadn't been run the night before. The plates and knives and forks remain untouched; he grabs dinner at the office, sometimes comes home and eats soup that warms up in the microwave straight out of the bowl, or orders pizza and leaves the box sitting out on the counter for days. It is quiet there. He moves the television into his bedroom and falls asleep to the flickering light—old reruns of sitcoms where conflict is resolved at the end of a half an hour—and starts functioning on about three hours of sleep because he tosses and turns for hours before he finally loses consciousness. Tells himself it's not because the bed sheets don't smell like her perfume.

His clothes are still in his suitcase. He has to get up early every morning to iron, pressing off his pants and thinking about how he'll have to do laundry soon. It'll be the perfect excuse to finally fill up the closet.

He definitely doesn't think about how much he'd like to zip that suitcase shut and go home

**ii.**

The kids come on Sundays. The _girls_ come on Sundays. Porter, Parker and Preston stonewall him like he's the enemy, and he's hurt enough to want to ask Penny if they're doing the same to their mother, but not desperate enough to lay that bitterness on her.

Yet.

It's probably just a matter of time.

The visits are indescribably awful. Paige is mobile now and he has to confine her to her highchair or the portable playpen because the apartment isn't baby-proofed and he can't bring himself to do anything about that for reasons that he won't admit but he knows have a lot to do with permanence. Sometimes he holds her and breathes in her baby scent and makes goofy faces just to hear her laugh, but it makes him ache all over because that used to be everything and now it's not. Now there's work and important clients and accounts that could mean his job if they're lost and it's so much fucking pressure that he feels it like a headache behind his eyes every moment of every day. Now that has to be everything because if he loses it, there will be _nothing_.

The first few times, Penny asks him when he's coming home. She talks to him with all the naiveté of a child and the pain of an adult, and he can see how they've broken her in such a way that it's never going to heal. This will be that scar she carries with her into adulthood that will make it hard for her to trust men or open up to people or commit in a relationship. It's so fucking poetic. His father is the reason he hopped from bed to bed in his twenties, never committing, never trusting himself or anyone else. His father is the reason that he spent so many years fearing to ever make one fucking misstep, keeping his mouth shut and trying so hard not to turn into that man. And it happened anyway.

And, of course, her mother is the reason for everything from the faint scars on her body to her control issues to her fear to give in to that urge to drink when she's depressed. Really, in comparison, their kids are walking away with minimal damage; they should be grateful.

He still feels guilty as hell.

**iii.**

There's this horrible realization that every song he hears reminds him of her.

He's listened to the same radio station on the way to work for years now because they play trivia games in the morning ("The average American consumes 759 of these a year"—soda) and he likes to guess the answers. But they play all these cheesy love songs and ballads and crap like Journey in between the questions that just get into his head for the rest of the day. It's like having a reminder of her on infinite repeat.

It's bad enough that his office is nothing but a sick joke now because it echoes with their fight, and he still nearly calls her every day to say he won't be home for dinner before he remembers that she doesn't fucking care.

**iv.**

He's always had kind of a natural charm, and he's not as naïve about his effect on women as he was when he was a teenager. Still plays it off as innocent, though, because for years and years and years that's all it was. So when he's somewhat accidentally flirting with Rita in accounting as he hands over his travel receipts, it's kind of a shock when she rubs his forearm and bats her eyelashes flirtatiously. When he pulls away like he's burned, it's not because he's thrown off by the attention; it's because for the first time he thinks he could do something about it.

The rest of the day he's useless as his mind keeps going back to that moment and he thinks about what it would mean to drive Rita back to the apartment that night and kiss along the long, tanned column of her neck and twist his fingers in her dark hair and make her moan. He thinks about how meaningless it would be to fuck her. He thinks about how her scent would get all twisted up in his sheets and he'd probably have to get new ones after because washing them just wouldn't be enough.

Betrayal.

That night he goes home so pent up that he immediately strips down and hops in the shower, stroking himself until he's hard, one hand braced on the tiled wall of the shower as he squeezes his eyes shut and jerks off. But it isn't dark brown eyes and artificially curled hair that he's picturing. Instead he thinks of her and how hurt she'd be if he had done what he could have done. He pictures her big blue eyes, broken like waves cresting toward the sand, and gets off on the thought that he could still cause her pain.

Every fucking day she's in his head, and it's hard to imagine that she—tough-as-nails, unbreakable, hard, unflappable—shares this torment in any way. After all, she let him leave. She was fucking _relieved_, like she was cutting off some cancerous tumor from her life. But that would break her. Betrayal would break her.

It's an indescribably sick turn-on, knowing he could still destroy her.

**v.**

He gets plastered on his birthday.

He leaves work early for the first time in weeks and sits alone in the apartment throwing back shots of whiskey. He keeps all the lights out. Not even the TV is on because it's in the fucking bedroom and he refuses to go in there tonight. He refuses to lie there imagining her lips and tongue and soft, soft skin and the sounds she makes when he touches her. Not tonight.

It's just so fucking ridiculously unfair how much he still loves her. She's like poison in his bloodstream, slowly killing him, and there's no antidote. He thought this—moving out, distance, _leaving her_—would be the cure. He'd get her out of his brain and his heart and his soul and be free.

He's slowly realizing that's impossible. Doesn't want to admit it, but deep down knows it's true.

He's a masochist or an addict or something. Yeah, an addict. Addicted to her. Addicted to that ambivalent feeling of frustration and chivalry whenever she tries to micromanage his life. God, it drives him fucking crazy, and at the same time, he feels like he's some kind of hero when she looks at him with those big eyes and he knows that he's giving her everything she needs. It's such a big part of why he left—of why he thought he needed to leave—and it's so damn ironic that he _misses _that about her now. He misses the high he got when her eyes lit up and she smiled like he gave her the world just because he let her choose where they ate dinner or went on a stupid vacation.

What he doesn't miss is that low feeling when it went the other way. When she made him feel like a child that couldn't make a decision to save his life; when she made him feel like next to nothing in his own home.

She just can't fucking understand that. Or he can't communicate it. Maybe it's both somehow. What he does know is that taking that control away in those little ways that always made both of them feel good was not the solution, and he thinks if he could just go back and erase buying those plane tickets to Hawaii then maybe he wouldn't be sitting alone in the dark right now, miserable and alone.

He thinks about calling her, but he's too drunk to remember where he put his phone. Instead he just keeps drinking until he blacks out, until he's no longer thinking about whether he's ever going to be able to touch her again.

The next day, he won't remember that impulse, but he'll still feel that longing to talk to her.

**vi.**

He reaches the bottom of his suitcase on Monday. Finds a pair of her panties tucked into the pocket of his pants and spends twenty minutes cursing her because he wants to believe she did it on purpose, but knows deep down that she didn't.

He spends the day pretending it's not weird that he carries them in his pocket like a secret he's proud to keep.

**vii.**

She is routine. Part of that whole control thing—like the world will end if she goes to the grocery store on Wednesday instead of Thursday. Not that it doesn't come in handy, sometimes; specifically now that he's going through withdrawal. That's why he schedules a fake meeting on Thursday morning and drives thirty minutes across town just so he can accidentally-on-purpose run into her while she's picking out watermelons.

She looks better than he wants her to. Obviously she hasn't been sleeping enough if the dark circles under her eyes are anything to judge by, but other than that she's so _her_ that it hurts to look at her.

"What are you doing here?" she asks when he sidles up next to her. He stares at her like a man parched with thirst after wandering the desert for too long, wondering what it means that she doesn't sound horrified or upset or happy or anything other than mildly curious. "Shouldn't you be at _work_?"

He could fly off of the bitterness behind that one word.

The thing is that he doesn't know what to say now that he's here. Mostly he wants to touch her. He wants to touch her so badly that his hands are trembling. He wants to see if his hand still fits perfectly against her hip and if her hair is still as silky as it's always been and if her nipples will harden if he brushes her breast with the pads of his fingers. And he should be able to do all of that because she's still his fucking wife, damn it, and the urge to push her against the fruit stand and remind her that they're still married is almost overpowering.

"I have to do laundry."

She raises an eyebrow, eyes cool, and he wishes there was some kind of emotion there.

"I don't have any detergent," he babbles. What the fuck is he even saying right now?

She digs into her purse, gets out her checkbook. "Here," she says, pulling out some kind of coupon. She's halfway to handing it over when she pulls it back. "Oh wait. I forgot. Money is no object, right? I bet it makes you feel like a big man, paying full price."

God fucking damn it all to hell.

He reaches out and snatches the coupon from her fingers, rips it in two and doesn't bother to watch the tattered pieces float slowly to the floor. They're glaring at each other and her breathing is shallow like she's turned on or something which is just too much because he _is_ turned on, and the next thing he knows, his arms are wrapped around her and his mouth finds hers and they're making out in the middle of the produce aisle. Her hands are threaded through his hair and he nudges his knee between her legs and their tongues are practically at war and it feels fantastic. How has he gone five weeks without doing this?

She pulls away from him without warning, eyes flashing red even as her chest is heaving, her lips swollen and cheeks flushed. "What the hell are you doing?" she snaps, as though she was an unwilling participant. It makes him mad enough that he squeezes her hips too hard, hard enough to bruise, and he grins when she sucks in her breath. "Are you insane?"

"Yes." He rubs his thumbs over the tough denim of her jeans like he's soothing the wound he just created. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing without you."

She pulls away from him, shaking her head and dropping her eyes. "No. No, no—You don't get to do this to me."

Like she's not the one calling every fucking shot here. "Do what?"

"This," she hisses, gesticulating between them with a sudden viciousness. "Kiss me like that and then go back to your apartment like nothing happened. Kiss me like that after you haven't talked to me in a month! Just—No."

She storms away from him then, and he doesn't go after her.

He just stands there and takes a sick pleasure in knowing she's going to have to come back to the grocery store some other time.

**viii.**

He does laundry that weekend. Hangs up his clothes in the closet and kicks his suitcase until it hits the wall.

It doesn't make him feel any better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **It is most definitely not mine. Author's notes at end.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part II**

**i.**

He dreams.

He dreams the type of dreams that have him waking up in a cold sweat, heart racing as he blinks in the darkness and slowly reassures himself that reality is far from a nightmare. The problem is that it's not really reassuring so much as depressing—alone in a dark room whose shadows are still strangers he'll never be able to welcome—and his heart simply slows to the rhythm of a man far past broken. Not a night goes by now that his sleep is restful, and for a person functioning on the bare minimum anyway, it does nothing to improve his situation.

Some of the nightmares are old staples. Reruns of that day he discovered his father's infidelity and was abruptly tipped from boyhood to manhood without any say in the matter. Ones whose pictures fade instantly, leaving behind just the vague familiarity of despair in the pit of his stomach. And a particularly vivid terror of drowning underneath a layer of thick ice, unable to scream for help or find an escape, just staring up into the sun while the shadow of a person who can't—won't—help haunts him overhead. These, these he can handle. These he can brush aside after decades of practice, not quite managing to get back to sleep, but at least dozing until his alarm blares in the early light of dawn.

It is the others that torture him.

**ii.**

When he married Lynette he had two big secrets. The first was his dalliance with her best friend, a night made foggy from too much booze and regret; one he tried to pretend never happened no matter how many teasing looks Renee might have sent his way. A night he still tries to pretend never happened because that one mistake almost cost him everything.

The second was the careful mask he wore over the scar of his father's infidelity, hiding it so completely that he forgot it was there. At the time, it felt like just this fact he had come to accept about his father, a fact that Lynette would neither understand nor condone. Best to leave it untouched, unspoken, forgotten. Years later, when his father's own negligence brought the truth to light, he brushed it aside carelessly, never able to look too hard at the reality of the situation, and she never asked the one question that would have brought it all to the surface.

How did you find out?

It wasn't until his parents got divorced that it spilled out of him—the pain he had been hiding for thirty-some odd years. That night he drunkenly ranted, spinning her a tale of a thirteen-year-old boy who had stumbled across his father fucking some stranger in their family car; a tale of a boy who agonized over whether or not to tell his mother, finally breaking down and confessing, only to be told to box up the truth as though it didn't matter at all.

These things happen. It's not a big deal. He's still your father, Tommy.

It left him hurt and confused and alone. His siblings, already settled into grown-up lives, didn't care. There was no one else to talk to about any of it. And it took away his right to be angry. It took away his right to hate his father. That night, telling her all of these things that he hadn't talked about with anyone in his life, he was finally able to say it.

_I hate my father_.

And she knew. She bore that burden's twin—discovering her mother's infidelity at the age of twelve—and she didn't condemn his feelings or tell him to ignore them or brush them aside. She held him and poured him shots and let him go on and on and on and on…

Still, he never told her the rest. To this day, he hasn't explained everything. The string of girlfriends—beginning with Chelsea and ending with Annabel—who he barely cared about. Cheating on every last one because they were all so damn needy. So damn desperate for a commitment; for a diamond and a vow with no conviction.

So like his mother, overlooking every flaw just to be taken care of, even when they didn't need to be.

He has never told her that she was—is—different, and that is why he chose her.

Because she doesn't expect to be taken care of ever, even though it's as plain as day that she needs to be. For years, that has fueled him, propelling him forward and making him love her no matter how hard she pushes him away. And it's only just lately that he's begun to think that maybe it would be nice, just once, to hear the words.

_I _need_ you_.

**iii.**

They want to send him on another business trip, and he agrees with all of the enthusiasm of a man desperate to escape. He declines the jet, though, ignoring the strange looks he gets when he announces he wants to drive.

Drive himself. In his car. With his baby's car seat sitting unused in the back seat.

He might as well have announced he plans to walk to the moon. They laugh. Whatever you say, Tom. Like he's an eight-year-old whose flights of fancy they're indulging good-naturedly.

He's beyond caring what they think of him, though. Just packs his car, turns on the GPS and goes.

Sends her a text: Going out of town. Be back Thursday, and tells himself it's only so she'll know not to drop the kids off this weekend.

**iv.**

The dreams only get worse once he's sleeping on a foreign hotel bed in Seattle. They aren't the familiar ones either.

Vivid and repetitious. Violent. He's with her and they're fighting, screaming and cursing and hurting one another. It is vicious, but not unbearable. Not until he grasps her, pushing her down on the bed and ignoring her hurried, angry cries _get off me_, and just going further, further, further, ripping off her clothes and kissing her protests away even as he can feel them on her lips and then…

It is a blessing when he wakes up, shaking and shivering and crying. Disgusted because he's half-hard and it sickens him that this is what his mind has succumb to after everything.

He hates himself.

**v.**

Things don't go well in Seattle. He's exhausted and short-tempered. When the vice president of the company makes a snide remark under his breath, his anger bursts like a balloon, and he finds himself cursing in a board room full of important people. The worst part is that he barely cares. Even when Glenn calls later and bitches him out in a way that no one has ever done in his lifetime, the most he can manage to do is stop himself from being careless and yelling right back.

It probably saves his job, but that brings him less satisfaction than it should.

**vi.**

The drive back is long. He leaves late at night, thinking that by the time he gets back to the apartment he'll immediately pass out—no dreams. The road weaves beneath his tired eyes as he blasts the air conditioner to keep himself alert (the radio stopped working after he accidentally-on-purpose punched it one morning). It's barely working, though—at one point he actually dozes off for a few seconds—and it's after that moment that he pulls out his phone and hits one on the speed dial before he thinks it through.

"Tom?" she says when she answers, and the hint of concern in her voice fills up his whole body like oxygen he didn't realize he needed. "It's after one. What's wrong?"

"I'm driving," he says. Even in his hazy mind it sounds stupid. "I'm exhausted. I just—I need someone to keep me awake."

Her voice sounds tight when she speaks again, and he knows she's probably only agreeing because it would be too hard to tell the kids she let him die in a fiery car crash, but her agreement is still the most welcome thing he's heard in weeks. "Fine."

There's this awkward pause because they haven't talked in (if he's honest) months, and he's too tired to figure out the right thing to say in this situation. He wants her to take the lead, to lead them somewhere safe, and so he's surprised when she asks, "How was your trip?"

"Miserable." He confesses before thinking it through, then decides he doesn't care. "I fucked up pretty bad. Glenn chewed me out over the phone."

"Oh."

"It was just a bad day. I—I'm not thinking clearly."

She's quiet for a moment, though she's probably not puzzling out his use of the present tense as he is. It's the truth, though. If he was thinking clearly, he wouldn't be driving at all right now. If he was thinking clearly, he wouldn't be on the phone with her. As it is, he's surprised when she says, "Do you remember the day I lost the baby lotion account? Michael called me into his office, ready to bitch me out, and you came with me. You said—"

"We'd take the fall together. Yeah. I remember."

"I was shocked. You know I was convinced you…hated me."

There is a hesitance in the last part that he's never heard before in this recollection they've shared a hundred times over. Usually in bed, her giggling softly and smiling that smile that is all his. He wonders what it means. He's too tired to figure it out. "I did," he recites like it's a line he memorized years ago. "But I was also in love with you, so…"

"Nothing's really changed, huh?"

Fuck, he is not in the right state of mind to be having this conversation. His mind twists with the soft cadence of her voice and the sadness there, mixing with the images that lurk from the hellish nightmares he's been having and colliding with his torturous, desperate longing for her. It's too much to deal with right now.

The moment passes before he figures out how to answer, and it feels like he lost an opportunity.

"Penny is getting her braces on tomorrow," she says. He voice is tinged with something false now, but he latches on to the conversation like a lifeline and lets her guide him to safety.

They talk about the kids for the rest of the drive.

**vii.**

He falls asleep the second he hits the bed, not even bothering to take off his shoes.

He sleeps for twenty-four hours straight, and doesn't dream once.

* * *

><p><strong>An: ** I am very interested (slightly anxious) to hear what you guys think of this chapter. It's definitely a darker turn than I usually take with these stories, but I hope it still works.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. I'm glad you enjoyed it so much (particularly the kiss scene, which was sparked by my utter craziness during the finale—me wishing, several times out loud, that Tom would just grab her and kiss her senseless at some point in that episode). It's always great to hear what you think, especially when writing stories like these where I'm trying something new.

In other words, you guys are completely awesome, and I can't thank you enough.

-Ryeloza


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **It is absolutely not mine.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part III**

**i.**

Glenn traipses into his office one morning with a rare grin on his face, and he instantly stands like he's greeting royalty or something. Where he used to be on edge with Glenn before—fearful of the man who held his entire future in his hand—he now feels almost sickeningly anxious around his boss. Since Seattle, he's been afraid to make the slightest misstep. Since Seattle, he's been putting in twice as many hours, doing everything in his power to perform beyond reproach.

This is the first time Glenn has approached him in any sort of friendly manner in weeks, and instantly, it makes him even more nervous than usual.

"Hey," his boss says, greeting him like an old friend. Glenn likes to pretend they aren't aware of the power structure. It only serves to make the paradigm more overt. "You got a minute?"

"A minute, yeah." Glenn's grin broadens; it's the right answer.

"I have to meet with a couple of the investors this Friday. I want you to come."

"Okay."

"It's going to be dinner. Formal. Bring a date."

He tenses, this visible shift in posture that he knows Glenn must be conscious of even if he doesn't react beyond pretending to pick a piece of lint off of his shirt. Even though he shouldn't, he steps out from behind his desk, gets within an arm's length of his boss. "My wife and I…we're…uh…At the moment we're…"

Glenn shakes his head impatiently. "I didn't say bring your wife. I said bring a date. Come on, Tom. I know you traded in that broken-down oldie for a newer model, and that's fine. I get it. Now that you're making the big bucks you can get any woman you want."

He can feel the blood pounding in his head, his hands tightening to fists before Glenn even finishes speaking, and even though he's been physically violent with less than a handful of people in his entire life, now more than ever before he can feel that primal compulsion to strike beating inside of him like a steady, rhythmic percussion. It is instinctive—born of possessiveness and rage and this horrible need to protect what is his—but somehow he doesn't attack. He remains coiled tightly, ready to spring at any moment, but not moving, not speaking, not even really thinking because he is incapable of anything but raw emotion.

He is frozen in a reaction he longs to complete, but for some reason, doesn't.

Taking his silence as anything but a thinly veiled tremor of fury, Glenn slaps his shoulder companionably. "Just make sure you take off the wedding ring." He says it with a sick smile, like he's offering freedom, and then turns and walks away.

It takes him a long time to realize that he's standing in the middle of his office with his fists still clasped; even longer to realize that he feels ill, stomach churning like the rolling waves of the sea. Unsteadily, he turns and walks to the bathroom, kneels down in front of the toilet and waits for the sparse contents of his stomach to overturn. After several long minutes, he realizes it isn't going to happen, and leans back against the wall. Angrily, he kicks the door shut with his foot and then draws his knees up to his chest, leaning his forehead against them, hiding from the world.

The word _coward_ thrums through him with every beat of his heart, but it isn't shame he feels inside. So much dirtier and wicked and terrible: it's relief coursing through him. If he had given in…If he had punched Glenn…

He is nothing without this job. Nothing.

**ii.**

That night he takes off at five for the first time that he can remember, goes home, washes up, cooks a meager dinner that he picks at for fifteen minutes before giving up. And the whole time, he doesn't think about the newest toll this job is about to take on his life even though the truth is that he doesn't have time to moll this over. He has to make a decision and live with the consequences, as simple as that.

Glenn will not accept him showing up with a charming grin and apologies that his wife is stuck at home with the kids or, perhaps worse, working late.

He can't take someone he barely knows, though there are women at work who have been fawning over him like they can read that he's some kind of pseudo-bachelor. The idea terrifies him, not just because showing up with someone he doesn't know well is always a risk. It's too close to betrayal, or maybe it is an outright infidelity no matter what his intentions. No, it has to be someone he knows. Someone he knows well. Someone who can smile and look pretty and the whole thing would be entirely innocent.

It leaves his sister (who is thirteen years his senior; he almost manages a laugh at what Glenn would think of that) or one of her girlfriends—logically Gaby or Renee. They're both savvy and graceful and can navigate these waters with their eyes closed. But their loyalty to Lynette is almost stronger than a blood tie; he's not sure there wouldn't be consequences beyond what he can foresee.

Besides, he doesn't want to take any of them. He wants to take his wife. Despite the fact that she is possibly the least tactful person he's ever known. Despite the fact that she's liable to say something to get him ousted from this job. Despite the fact that she's anything but demure and simpering and the type of woman Glenn expects him to bring.

Despite the fact that they're not really together and their marriage is becoming more of a memory with every passing day.

Despite the fact that they're liable to get into an argument so fierce that it might bring the entire dinner to a screeching halt.

He wants her.

He is learning the hard way that he can't always have what he wants.

**iii.**

He drives over to the house that night because it's still early and he's afraid that if he waits even a day he'll change his mind. The long summer days mean that the sun is just setting, the sky darkening into that sleepy bluish-purple before it descends to black, the moon already hanging eagerly in the sky. Penny sits on the steps with a book in her lap, her hair forming a protective curtain around her. When he steps out of the car, his breath catches in his throat for a moment as she gracefully tosses some of it behind her shoulder, this grown up movement that she doesn't even make consciously, and it is only the fact that she still has bruises on her shins from the carelessness of childhood that reminds him that she's not an adult yet.

Yet.

Time slips by faster than he can see.

There's no way she hasn't been aware of him from the moment he pulled up the street (she is hiding behind a book the same way her mother does when she's angry or annoyed), but it isn't until he's standing right in front of her that she spares him a glance. "What are you doing here?" she asks, and he's not sure if it hurts more or less that he can hear the pain behind the indifference she's so desperately trying to project.

"I need to talk to your mom about something."

"She's inside."

It's a dismissal; she's already buried in her book again. It doesn't stop him from ruffling her hair as he passes, though she tenses at the action in a way she never did before. He pretends it doesn't bother him, goes into the house, and immediately wishes he had sent Penny inside to beckon her mother out.

The instant the door shuts, five pairs of eyes are on him, the nuances of their depths impossible to decipher beyond surprise. Except hers. He could read hers from the farthest reaches of space if someone asked him to. And though ambivalent, there is nothing good there for him to find. For the first time in his life, he is an intruder in his own home.

It's on the tip of his tongue to fumble through an apology. To admit he should have called first. To crack a joke about interrupting poker night. The words come and go so fast, and they're instinctive defenses to the distinct chill in the room. The problem is that he's too tired—too anxious—to dance with her tonight.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks bluntly, and it's so not him that he thinks he shocks her into nodding in agreement. She stands as her friends exchange less-than-subtle looks, and the two of them disappear into the other room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

It's awkward to begin with. Probably more so because he's openly gaping at her, rememorizing every living shade of her that can never truly be remembered or dreamed of or pictured. His imagination is so flat, such a poor substitute for the reality of her, and he never realizes until he's standing before her after being apart for too long.

Too long used to be a few hours. A few days.

He hasn't seen her since that day in the grocery store when he was nothing but anger and bitterness. He's not sure what he is now beyond desperate in too many ways to count.

"What's going on?" she asks. He can't begin to dissect how carefully neutral she's keeping her voice, and like a fool he tries to mimic her.

"I wanted to ask you if you'd have dinner with me on Friday," he says, so stupidly not even bothering to consider his words. It's like a collision he doesn't see coming. He's still speaking as her eyes light up, and it's impossible to stop midstream. "I have to meet with some investors at work and…"

It's at that moment that he realizes what he's done. It's at that moment that he registers the spark in her eyes, even as it instantly dies, beaten down in the cruelest fashion. His chest tightens uncomfortably. "I would really like it if you were there," he finishes weakly.

"Oh."

"I mean, I need to bring a date, and I want it to be you. Not because…I mean it's not just because of work…Because I was told to…" He's bumbling, the closest he's felt to his old self in (if he's honest) months, and hating himself for it every step of the way. It's so disgustingly juvenile; so not the type of man she's going to respect or want to be with.

She's deceptively impassive to everything he's saying now, and even though he has no idea what she's thinking, he knows her well enough to realize it's nothing good. When she finally cuts him off, it's a merciful death. "Sorry, I can't," she says, and it would be so, so simple to leave it at that.

But fuck, nothing has been simple between them in ages.

"Can't or won't?"

Her eyes narrow as though she's mad at him for bringing up the distinction. "You don't want me there. I'm not going to smile and pretend that everything is okay in front of a bunch of strangers."

He hadn't expected her to (maybe he had?). Maybe it didn't fucking matter to him, so long as she was there (probably another lie).

"I have to bring someone," he says.

"Well it's not going to be me."

They study one another. It's so cold and calculating, like water thrown on a fire, dousing any spark of heat or life. It had never once occurred to him that she would say no, and he's not sure why.

"I have guests." It ends any discussion. She turns and leaves the room, and he follows obediently, doesn't spare her a glance as he walks out of the house even though all he wants to do is look back at her.

He barely echoes his daughter's goodnight.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **Sorry I've been MIA for a little while; I just spent a week driving across the country and didn't have much time to write. I've been working on this chapter on and off for a few days, and I'm still not sure if it's entirely the way I want it, but if I tinker with it much longer, I'm afraid it's going to morph too far from what this story is intended to be. I do hope you all enjoyed it.

Feedback would be warmly, warmly welcomed. It always helps, and I always appreciate it.

-Ryeloza


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you so much to everyone who left feedback for the last chapter! I am so, so grateful that you continue to take the time to let me know what you think.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part IV**

**i.**

At home that night he pours himself a drink and downs it.

Continues.

Doesn't stop until he can't remember his name, let alone another rejection from the woman who once promised to stand by him until death parted them.

**ii.**

He spends the next day working up the resolve to tell Glenn that he's coming to the dinner alone, and never quite finds the guts to actually say the words. He's plagued by a nagging feeling that Glenn will simply scrounge up some date for him, and that it will be a girl who is young enough to be his daughter. Just the thought of it makes him ill, and so when Glenn stops by his office to "check in" (something he's been doing more and more frequently), he can't bring himself to confess.

He wants to blame her for turning him down. Almost succeeds.

**iii.**

That night he's well into his second, no third, drink when there's a knock at his door. For one stupid moment, he really thinks that it's her, and despite the way his heart leaps into his throat and his stomach gets kind of queasy, he stubbornly finishes his drink before ambling over to answer the door.

It's not her.

"Renee?" He stares at her. "What—Why—"

"No thanks, I don't want to come in."

He can't tell if she's being sarcastic. Dazed, he steps back a little and kind of gestures for her to come in, but she stays in the hall. His mind is still so wrapped up in the fact that she's here that he doesn't even notice that she leans toward him for a second, wrinkling her nose rather disgustedly. "You've been drinking," she observes.

"Bad day." Week. Month. Year. Maybe soon the rest of his life.

"Yeah, well, that's why I'm here. Lynette told me about your little dinner invite."

"She did?"

"Far be it from me to interfere," she says, and he snorts (because there's no amount of alcohol in the world that could stop that from being hilarious), "but I figured I'd help you out. Considering."

"Huh?"

"You need a date for Friday, right?"

"What? I…Well, yeah."

"What time?"

It takes a minute for his sluggish brain to put two and two together. When he does, the mix of emotions that runs through him is off-putting to say the least. Relief that he doesn't have to talk to Glenn, annoyance that Renee is so presumptuous, a niggling doubt that maybe by date she really means _date_…

"I don't think this is such a good idea."

Renee gives him a long, assessing look. In twenty years, they've never really been close. Barely even saw each other before she moved to Fairview. And still, somehow sharing a secret for all those years has made them capable of knowing one another better than one night of drunken intimacy ever could have. "If you think I'm going to sit by and watch you take some cheap floozy out while you're still married to my best friend, you've got another thing coming," she says. And he knows it's a reassurance.

"Fine." It comes out beleaguered; mostly, though, he's glad a solution has fallen into his lap without even trying. "Dinner is at eight."

"I'll be here at seven."

**iv.**

The dinner is nice.

It sounds like a bland assessment, but it's the only word he can think of to describe it. The two hours of carefully staged laughter that he thinks everyone must be aware of, but no one points out. A meal of overpriced wine and unadventurous dinner salad and undercooked chicken and orange sherbet for dessert. A long night of schmoozing and mildly interesting conversation.

Renee is practically a professional. She's flirtatious to all the men without being crude; she smiles at all the right times; and she smoothes over any lull in the conversation seamlessly. And Glenn is impressed. They're all impressed, really, but Glenn shoots him a look that reads, "Don't let this one go." It should be funny, but it isn't.

It should be thrilling—a full-out success; a recovery from his catastrophic misstep in Seattle.

But it's really…not.

**v.**

When they get back to his place, he invites Renee up for a cup of coffee, though he doesn't bother to hide the hope that she'll say no and just go home. He's tired and just wants to go to bed and not think about the dinner anymore. But if Renee realizes that the offer is hollow, she chooses to ignore it. "Coffee sounds great," she says, and she's out of the car before she can see him blanch.

He doesn't even know if he has any coffee; usually he just hits up the shop down the street in the morning.

As he gets out of the car, mentioning this to her, trying to sound off-hand, but really just sounding rude, she simply smiles. "Well a nightcap then," she says. "You can't tell me you don't have alcohol."

Of course. It's the only thing that's been getting him through Saturday. And Sunday night after the kids leave. And lately the weeknights when he can't fall asleep. "Sure," he mumbles. "Great."

"Great."

**vi.**

Renee is oddly quiet, and the silence between them should be uncomfortable, but the truth is that he's too busy wondering how long she'll stay to care about the lack of conversation. As he hands her a drink, she unfolds from the couch almost like liquid, standing and walking toward the fireplace, eyeing the apartment with calculating eyes. "This is a nice place."

"Yeah," he agrees, not accepting a compliment for something that really isn't his. "Not really my taste, though."

_Too sleek, too polished, too dark, too neat, too cold…_

"Well if you're looking to redecorate—"

"It's not mine to change," he says. It sounds like a more valid excuse than protesting that he's not about to have his wife and her friend redecorate his…whatever this is. Home without a family. Temporary address (although even that's not true; Lynette still sends his mail with Penny every week). Place to crash.

"Oh right," says Renee, jolting him from his musing. "The company's putting you up, right?"

"Yeah."

She nods appreciatively. "They must be real happy with you." And then, almost too quickly, she adds, "You know, it's probably a good thing this didn't happen when you were in your twenties."

He doesn't say anything. It's very obvious to him that Renee isn't up here for a drink or to chat amicably or to see how he's doing. She runs her hand over the minimalist accents on the mantle with a feigned casualness, and he really doesn't appreciate her attempt at staging a conversation. Not that his lack of response stops her.

"If this had happened in your twenties, there's a good chance you might have turned into a douchebag."

"Oh really?" He drinks to hide any hint of a smile; despite himself, he's almost amused. Renee, trying to be subtle. She's nearly as bad at is as Lynette is.

"Yeah," she continues, ignorant of his thoughts. "When you're that young, it kind of all goes to your head. You lose sight of things, forget who you really are deep down…Before you know it, you're married to a woman who's mostly with you for your money and who'll either leave you the moment your checking account takes a plunge or…"

"Or?"

She shrugs and picks up one of the objects on the mantle. "Or end up like me. Out for vengeance after being cheated on by said douchebag."

"Well," he sighs, coming over and removing the ugly, pointy glass object from her hands, "it's a good thing I'm not in my twenties anymore."

"Exactly. You're more grounded. You've already picked a woman who you know is going to stick by you whether you have money or not, hell, whether you have a job or not. So the money's really just a reward for both of you after so many years of struggling and working hard and having more kids than you can afford. There's no reason it should change you…Oh…Wait…"

"You're hilarious, you know that?"

"And you're acting like a jackass."

He feels his features twist in disbelief even if deep down he can't quite feel as indignant as he thinks he should. Still, Renee doesn't know that, and as he sets the knickknack back on the shelf and turns away from her, she rounds on him, not a vicious, desperate movement as it would be on Lynette (who puts so much fucking passion into everything), but one that means business nonetheless. "Look, no one else is going to say this to you, and as your friend—"

"Oh, we're friends now?"

"Proving my point for me, Tom." Her eyes soften for a moment, almost smiling, more pitying. It's a look he doesn't need to see from anyone, least of all her. "Look, God knows Lynette isn't perfect, but of the two of you, you're the one who needs to get his priorities in order."

He shakes his head, a defense against the unwanted, misguided advice. She doesn't know what she's talking about, and he doesn't appreciate her butting in where she doesn't belong. "She's the one who wanted me to take this job. I was fine staying where I was. She's the one who wanted the money—perks—whatever."

"Have you met Lynette?"

"No offense, but I think I know my wife better than you." Lies, lies, lies. The woman he's been married to for so long is lost to him, and he couldn't explain her anger with him right now if he tried. "This is between me and her, so you need to let it drop."

"If you would both stop being so stubborn and talk about this, you wouldn't be separated right now."

"Oh like I'm really going to listen to a woman whose marriage was basically an exchange of sex for money."

The remark hits her hard; her face, which usually hides all emotion, actually crumples in pain; only the faintest stoicism remains. He feels the briefest pleasure (she's been unnerving him for years and years without the tiniest flicker of regret), and then guilt creeps into his heart. With effort, he represses it, refuses to apologize, though he can tell she's waiting for him to take it back.

He won't.

Their silence is shattered by a knock at the door, and he's grateful for the interruption. Grateful that he doesn't have to stare down Renee until she realizes that he's not going to revoke his words. Grateful that one way or another, this is going to end right now.

Grateful until he opens the door and sees Lynette standing on the other side.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **None of this is mine.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part V**

**i.**

He's always said that he can't remember much about the night he and Renee spent together, and it's mostly true. She was wearing a towel—there was a hell of a lot of alcohol involved—he's pretty sure he cried in front of her at one point. If he was a betting man, he'd wager that the sex was disconnected, desperate and rushed, though that part of the evening really is almost entirely lost.

What he remembers the most clearly (what he'll never be able to explain to Lynette in a way she could understand) is talking to this woman who he'd only met twice in his life, but feeling this insane connection to her because she was the only other person in the world who _knew_ Lynette. Probably the only other person in the world who came close to loving her as much as he did.

It's funny that (other than the alcohol), that probably played the biggest role in their falling into each other's arms. Funny in a way that's not really funny at all.

**ii.**

She's not wearing shoes.

It's the most ridiculous thing to fixate on when his wife is standing in front of him obviously three sheets to the wind, swaying just slightly, her hair so sloppily pinned up that most of it has fallen ungracefully from its confines, wearing a shirt that's low cut and shimmering in some way he can't explain under one of his oldest button downs.

And no pants.

"Where are your shoes?" he asks, like that's the really mysterious part of this (like the fact that her shoes are missing is more confusing than the fact that she's not wearing pants and her legs look amazing—so long they go on forever. Or, for fuck's sake, like the absence of shoes is more absurd than the fact that she's here at all). It's just a thousand memories of hours spent in too-high heels or ankles swollen during pregnancy or feet exhausted from chasing their kids and running errands and going, going, going even in the most practical shoes, and sometimes at the end of the day he'd rub them without her even asking and run his thumb up the insole of her foot and she'd let out this little humming noise that was just so fucking perfect that he felt like there was nothing he could do wrong.

It's been a long time since he's felt that way. A really, really long time.

So long that he's completely fucking fixated on her feet, which has to be weird on every level and he should probably have his head examined. Or maybe just get a lobotomy and be done with this torture of thinking and feeling and being once and for all.

"What are you doing here?" he adds (the question he should have asked in the first place). He finally looks at her face, which is inscrutable. Usually she's the most open, ridiculous drunk and right now she's anything but, which makes him nervous for reasons he can't explain. Nervous enough that he starts babbling. "Where are the kids? It's almost eleven. Shouldn't you be at home?"

"I don't have to justify my whereabouts to you," she says (but it comes out _I don' haffa jusafy my wherebout to you_) and he catches her by the elbow as she swings her arm a little too hard and nearly falls. God damn, he's never seen her this wasted. "You're saying I'm a bad mother."

He doesn't comment. There's no use reasoning with her at this point. Unfortunately, there's also no choice but to pull her into the apartment and shut the door.

**iii.**

Lynette introduced Renee as her college roommate, and somehow being unable to separate reality from a bad movie, he immediately conjured up images of partying and giggling and maybe some one-time experimental kiss. Which sounds absurd in retrospect, but at the time he really didn't realize that he was walking into the middle of what seemed to be a fight that had been going on for years.

It was a night that left him uncomfortable, purposely pushed outside of whatever history there was between them, having no choice but to stand idly by through a barrage of verbal insults. He didn't—still doesn't—think they realize how painful this is for other people to witness, especially when it's so impossible to understand.

"She's as bad as your mother," he'd snapped at her when they got home from that initial meeting. "You went from one abusive home to another."

She'd looked surprised. Like the thought had never occurred to her. Then she'd taken his chin in his hand and kissed him and there had been this look in her eyes that he couldn't read then but he thinks now was some kind of thank you she couldn't say out loud.

He's still not sure what she was thanking him for.

**iv.**

That night was the first night Renee and Lynette made sense to him.

"She's not as strong as she wants people to think," Renee had slurred to him as they cracked open a second bottle of wine. "I could read it on her the second we met and I did everything I could to make sure she stayed that insecure."

"You're a horrible person."

She'd smiled wryly (or maybe that's how he imagines it now). "You know she finally got up the courage to dump my sorry ass—she was moving out and everything. She hated my guts."

"But?"

"But she happened to be there packing when my dad and stepmom showed up one day. I thought she was already gone or I would have never brought them back there. And let's just say she realized almost immediately that we're really not very different. Except…" And she'd paused and shook her head like she wasn't going to say it—admit it—but then she looked at him and something in her eyes weakened for the first time. So he'd prompted her.

"Except what?"

"She's a hell of a lot more forgiving than I'll ever be. In fact, she's probably the most forgiving person I know, and she doesn't even realize…"

And he'd known before Renee even said it, because he'd realized the same thing about Lynette months ago: that she had this wonderful, beautiful quality that she wasn't even aware of because it was so natural to her. This magnanimity that made everyone around her admire her more than she'd ever know.

Renee had smiled, like they were sharing a secret, like she knew that he knew, and that was when he realized, when he finally understood why she and Lynette were friends.

"That's what makes her so damn strong."

**v.**

As soon as they're inside, Lynette pulls her arm away from him, stumbling a bit as she does. He's so exasperated already; he doesn't have the patience to deal with this, and the feeling only intensifies when Renee reminds him that he was already in the middle of another infuriating situation. "Lynette?" she sputters, like she actually doesn't recognize her friend. "What are you—Where are your pants?"

Well at least one of them asked the more puzzling question.

Unfortunately, Lynette doesn't seem to take this as the genuine concern it actually is.

"What are you doing here?" she demands, the anger intelligible even if her actual words barely are. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Lynette…" Renee sounds more hurt now than she did minutes ago when he flung insults at her, and, bizarrely, confused, though it's abundantly clear to him what this looks like to Lynette. Horribly, he doesn't rush to correct this assumption, to defend himself or reassure his wife. Instead he finishes his drink and waits for the shit to hit the fan (because it's going to whether he tries to stop it or not).

And maybe some little part of him thinks that right or wrong, it's about God damn time.

"Are you sleeping with him? Is that what this is?"

"No! I would never…"

But that's a lie. And all three of them know that now.

"I just came over here to try to talk some sense into him," Renee starts again. "Since you won't."

"I don't want your help. You just make everything worse. Ever since you got here you've just made everything worse."

Renee is shaking her head desperately even as he's still trying to make out what Lynette is shouting, and then they both start talking over one another, a mess of unidentifiable words. It's nothing to listen to but pain and betrayal on both sides, and even though he's right in the middle of it, it really has nothing to do with him. He wants to push them both out the door, let them go back and forth all night somewhere—anywhere—else, but he just pours himself another drink.

"Shut up!" Lynette finally shrieks—really and truly shrieks like he's never heard before. It's so startling that he spills half his drink on the floor, and Renee actually stops talking, though her mouth hangs open in genuine surprise. "I don't care what you were trying to do! You slept with my husband! You're not allowed to be alone with him in some sleazy apartment in the middle of the night drinking scotch!"

Renee's eyes find him just for a moment and he knows that she expects him to fix this. To take back his words from earlier by correcting his wife. (_No, she really was here to tell me I'm being a jackass_…)

It only takes a second for her to realize that he's not going to. And maybe it's unfair, but the truth is that he agrees with Lynette: Renee has no right to get in the middle of this, regardless of her intentions.

Or maybe he really is a total jackass now.

Even in the face of this, Renee is nothing but dignity. She gathers her belongings and walks out the door with her head held high.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You guys are awesome, and I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. I would really love to hear what you thought of this part as well, so big thanks in advance if you take the time to review!

-Ryeloza


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **This so isn't mine. And a warning: the M rating means more in this chapter.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part VI**

**i.**

"You're going to feel bad about that in the morning," he says to Lynette as Renee shuts the door. And he's not even so sure it's true, but he can feel the heaviness of reality setting in; the reality that he's now alone with his wife for the first time in weeks. And he doesn't have a fucking clue what to say to her. "If you can even remember."

"_She_ will. I told her…" She shakes her head, turns to face him with eyes that narrow almost imperceptibly. It's obvious that Renee is quickly fading from the forefront of her mind; she's struggling to remember whatever she came here for in the first place. Probably to yell at him. About something. Though he can't imagine anything she needs to say to him that would take this amount of liquid courage, especially for someone who has courage in spades. He wonders if maybe he's the one who should be drunk for this.

Well, drunker.

"Come on," he growls, crossing the room and taking a forceful hold of her upper arm. She immediately tries to wrench away from him, but he's done playing games. Less than gently, he drags her over to the couch and pushes her down, ignoring her scowl. "You're going to sober up and then you're going home."

"You're not the boss of me."

"Wanna bet?"

He's not sure if it's a provocation or the truth. That this is his home (sort of) and she just barged in and chased off his (albeit unwanted) guest and she's way too far gone to have any sort of control over this situation, so yeah, that kind of automatically gives him the right to a little authority.

But God, he thinks he mostly said it to piss her the hell off. Which it does.

She stands up and shoves him, hard. Hard enough that he probably would have fallen if he hadn't had time to brace himself; as it is, he's so impaired that he still stumbles slightly. He recovers just as she gears up for a second attempt, grasping her wrists and holding her back. In her bare feet she's so much smaller than him—so deceptively delicate. But her eyes are blazing, dark and dangerous and just somewhat glassy, and only a fool would be stupid enough to underestimate her.

"Let go."

"So you can shove me across the room? I don't think so."

She frowns. It makes that little crease appear between her eyes, and for a second he's overwhelmed by the familiarity of her. That crease and the scent of her shampoo and the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips and God, he misses her.

"What was she doing here?"

He's so lost in the physicality of her that he barely hears the question. "What?"

"What was Renee doing here?"

"Don't." It comes out sharp—maybe sharper than he means it too—but this isn't about that, and he's not going to let her make this canyon dividing them even deeper with meaningless happenstance. "Don't make this about her."

"You're the one—"

But he doesn't let her finish. Pulls her to him instead so she's practically standing on his feet and then he leans in and kisses her, hard and furiously, still holding her wrists in a grip so tight it's probably going to mar her perfect skin. Tells himself that it's because he just needed her to shut up for once in her life, not because her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright and her lips irresistible and it's been so fucking long…

It's been so long.

**ii.**

Lately in his darkest moments, he lies in bed and tries not to think about never agains and last times. Because his whole life is starting to feel pinpointed on those instances when everything was still okay and he never once thought to memorize the details of her just in case. Just in case was years ago when she was so, so sick and every minute felt like the period at the end of a sentence; a finality he feared almost as much as he feared her seeing it in his eyes.

How was he supposed to know that one random Tuesday in late May that he shouldn't have just been making love to his wife, but learning every second of that night by heart? Because now when he thinks back he can't remember the exact shade of pink her body flushed with pleasure or the look in her eyes afterward, and not even the memory of her touch is truly imbedded in his mind. And maybe none of that should matter, but it does. Deep down he's terrified that this remembrance is all he has left.

**iii.**

This kiss is a stranger. Pissed off and desperate and heartbroken and hopeless and everything else they've never been—at least not with each other. He's still holding her wrists, an anchor grounding a ship, but she tightens her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer like they're sharing this fear that the other will run away. Each tries to hold the other captive, and he wonders if they're struggling too hard to realize that there's already a cage encapsulating them both.

"Fuck," she hisses, the word moving against his lips like he said it himself, and just feeling her like that, unhinged, undoes him so much that his hands are nearly shaking. He kisses her again, capturing her top lip between his and doing everything in his power to suppress a moan as her tongue darts sloppily into his mouth and he's so, so, so tense.

"Tom—Stop—" He chases her lips before she can pull them a fraction away. This—he _needs_ this. He needs her. And it's only muffled against his lips that he finally hears the plea in her voice: "You're _hurting_ me."

Her words are the catalyst that stops him cold, drawing forward the nightmare that lurks beneath the surface of his mind, even if it doesn't haunt him as frequently as it once did. He releases her with such a sudden viciousness that she stumbles backward and falls onto the couch. She stares at him, bewildered, rubbing her right wrist with her left hand, and however horrified he feels, it doesn't come close to overpowering his desperation for her. Without any real notion of what he's actually doing, he falls onto the couch beside her, hand twisting into her hair, pulling her toward him and kissing her again. It's harsher, the way their teeth click together for a moment before he forces his tongue into her mouth, and he's taken aback by the surprising, wanton moan she emits. He's so hard, he's straining against his pants.

This should be a dream.

One hand runs up her leg, surprised as it encounters the frayed edges of a pair of cutoff shorts so tiny that they'd been covered by the baggy shirt—shorts he hasn't seen her wear since before the kids were born—ones that still have splatters of paint from when they first moved into the house and were redecorating. It's such a pleasant memory, so far removed from where they are now, that he's almost angry as he runs his finger along the inseam, pressing against her so hard that she starts rubbing against his hand to increase the friction. Wickedly, he turns his hand, thrusting his palm into her as she writhes against him, and he watches as she throws her head back, breathing heavily, body shaking in a way that makes him feel so fucking powerful.

He leans toward her, cups the back of her neck with his hand, presses his lips close to her ear. "I'm the only one who can make you feel this good," he whispers, and there's this cruel edge to his voice that he doesn't recognize. "Admit it."

She squeezes her eyes shut, lets out this sound like she's almost crying. She feels like fire against him.

"Admit it."

She nods, gasps, "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!" and she's shaking against him, tightening as she comes and then limply dropping against his body. For a moment he almost gets lost in the scent of her hair and the feeling of her damp forehead against his neck and it's nearly enough to wipe out all of the ire and frustration.

Nearly. Nothing keeps it completely at bay.

Roughly, he pushes her away from him onto her back, ignoring the way her eyes widen in surprise because this is not him. His hands fumble with the button on her shorts; he pulls them off, nearly tearing her panties in his eagerness. She's so slick against his fingers that he almost loses it right then like a teenager without any control. But maybe that's because he never had it anyway.

She means too much.

He doesn't even manage to take his pants completely off before he's inside of her. And it's been too long—she's so tight and she gasps in discomfort for a moment and swears—but he can't (won't) give her even a moment. He's fucking her long and deep and hard and it feels so damn good and is still somehow the worst sex they've ever had because the whole time he finds himself on the verge of bursting into tears.

He doesn't last long. After he comes, he collapses on top of her, uncomfortably hot because he's still wearing most of his clothes and she's like heat surrounding him, but neither of them move.

She's crying, though, and what hurts the worst is that he can't shed a tear even though he feels a sob so tight in his chest that he can't breathe.

"I've missed you," he whispers into her skin.

And he wants to believe this is real when she cries, "I've missed you too."

**iv.**

He wakes up shivering in the middle of the night, still on the couch, still dressed, but she's gone. For a moment he really believes it was all a dream, another horrible vivid dream that is going to haunt him probably for the rest of his life. Then he sits up, head throbbing, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark, and he sees her.

She's curled up in an arm chair, watching him, biting at her thumbnail: a beautiful mess.

They shouldn't have done this.

He shouldn't have done this.

"This was a mistake," she says. Her voice is hoarse. He wonders if she's been crying all night. "We shouldn't have done that."

"Why?" Not that he doesn't know. Because whatever is going on between them isn't going to be fixed with sex, and that he knows she's not about to ask him to come home, and he's not going to beg her to take him back, and somehow everything seems worse now.

"Because…" She lets out a shaky breath. He averts his eyes, finger running circles over the rim of a glass, this feeling of dread building inside of him. "Because I came here tonight to tell you that I think I want a divorce, and now…"

The glass hits the fireplace so hard that it shatters into a thousand pieces. She jumps, and he just sits there, somewhat astounded because he didn't even realize what he was doing. He doesn't move. He's afraid now. Afraid of how he keeps reacting without thinking, and that's not him.

"You want a divorce?"

She shrugs helplessly. "I don't know what I want. But I don't want this. I feel…trapped."

They are in a cage. He sees that now.

But he thinks he's too cruel to let her go free.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **Thank you a hundred times over to everyone who reviewed. This is so different than what I usually write that the feedback really helps. This chapter, particularly, I feel like I'm toeing a line with these characters, so I hope that it's still in character (and that it works).

Many, many thanks to you all. You guys are amazing.

-Ryeloza


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. At all. And this is not for profit.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**Part VII**

**i.**

Lonely.

He grew up with a brother and a sister who were already teenagers when he was still in diapers and a father who was on the road constantly and a mother whose coddling was equal to her emotional distance, and even though it was all so normal and comfortable and stable in its own fucked up way, there were times when it was unbearably lonely.

So he existed outside of himself.

He lived in a world where he fought dragons with a wooden sword, and thought he could fly off of the roof of the garage if he flapped his arms hard enough, and captained a pirate ship that was really only a tree house. He was the kid who tried to climb across the curtain rod in his parents' bedroom and dug for treasure in his mother's garden. The kid who spent half of his little league career less interested in the actual game than in thinking up ways to steal the golf cart Mr. Morris drove around the perimeter of the field (easier to yell insults that way). And sure, he had friends—friends also desperate to escape; friends with equally overactive imaginations; friends who were maybe just as lonely as he was, though he didn't know it at the time.

And somehow in that entire childhood of strange solitude, he never remembers feeling as lonely then as he does right now.

**ii.**

He thinks that it's not so much the fact that she brought up divorce that surprises him. It's that she claims she's not sure divorce is what she wants. It's that there's this hesitance surrounding her that he's completely unfamiliar with because she's always so fucking sure of everything (or at least pretends to be). For her to come over here—for her to bring up the one ending to this situation that has been in the back of both of their minds just never in their words—and yet not be sure…

"Do you expect me to make this decision for you?"

It sounds angry (why is he always so angry now?), but mostly he's looking at her and thinking he's never been less sure of her or them or anything in his whole life, and the world is collapsing around them. And here? Now? This is the moment when she suddenly decides that it's his turn to make the choice after twenty-plus years of never letting him decide one damn thing? "Really?" he adds, and this time the bite is purposeful. "You're putting that on me?"

She shuts her eyes wearily. Runs her fingers through her hair, pulling it back. Looks at him again with an expression so, so tired. And he aches for her. "When did we stop being partners?"

"We were partners?" He shakes his head and reaches for the remaining glass on the table. He sees that there's a ring on the coffee table when he picks it up. Ignores it. Downs what's left in the glass. "I think you're going to have to refresh my memory."

"Do you think it would be possible for you to quit being a dick for even five minutes? Or is that my answer? You hate me so much that we can't even have one fucking conversation about whether we're worth saving?"

Worth saving. It sounds glib. A slight to their entire life together. Of course they're _worth_ saving.

The real question is whether they can be.

**iii.**

He's sees so much of himself in his kids, good and bad. Personality and sense of humor and creativity and challenges and interests. And yet it's only Paige who he looks at and actually fears that she will grow up to be him.

As much as he mourned Patrick's death himself, there was another part of him, deeper and subtler, that mourned him on behalf of his twin sister as well: that little boy still inside of him that remembered what it was like to grow up so alone. He didn't want that for his baby girl. It felt like breaking a promise to her before he even met her; a promise he had only had a glimpse of knowing he had made once before then (some sweet relief nineteen years previously when he'd found out they were having twins and he'd known that even if they never had any other children, at least those two would always, always have one another). The only reassurance had been knowing that it wouldn't really be the same for Paige.

He wasn't his father.

Lynette wasn't his mother.

Now he's failed his youngest more than he ever thought he possibly could. He's not there. Even his father, who was so often not there when he was growing up, always came home; a promise he kept, even if it was borne solely of obligation.

Sometimes he thinks he's worse than his father was in some ways.

And he desperately doesn't want Paige to turn out like him.

**iv.**

He doesn't find his voice before Lynette does. Not that she gives him much time. She just kind of sighs in this drained way and says quietly, "Look, I know I can be…controlling."

For a moment he hates how much better she is than him in the most important ways. That she can make this concession. That she can extend this olive branch, and he can't.

She's oblivious to his thoughts. Lost in herself somewhere. "And maybe I've been worse since…"

She trails off. Like she's really thinking about it for the first time. Like she's honestly not sure when it got so bad, and maybe the truth is that he doesn't know either because he's still can't remember a time that she wasn't always so…so _her_.

"…I don't know." She looks at him like she's actually surprised. "Since…Since I found out about you and Renee? Or since what happened with Eddie or since we lost the baby…?"

He opens his mouth, about to tell her that she's giving herself too much credit. That this has been going on much longer than that.

She beats him to the punch.

"Or maybe it's been a lot longer than that?"

"Yeah." It's a quiet agreement. He honestly expects her next words to be the confession he's been waiting for, possibly since he first married her. That she's always been this way and the only reason they are broken right now is because he finally called her out on it.

For a second he has this odd surge of hope.

"Atlantic City."

"What?"

"That's when, isn't it?"

It's like being turned upside-down very suddenly and without any warning. He's dazed, unsure of what she's saying, unable to keep up with her thoughts which are coming very, very fast now, spilling out of her like she's had some epiphany.

"We never…I had such a hard time trusting you after that. For such a long time. And we never really talked about it. It just happened. And Norah's death and Kayla moving in and Rick, and then I got sick—"

"Wait—Wait, what?" He furrows his brow, staring at her, so confused. Because she can't honestly be doing what he thinks she's doing. "You're blaming this on me?"

She blinks at him, almost like she forgot he was there. Of course. "No."

"You're saying that it's my fault that you are the way you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yeah, you are."

"Tom—"

He stands abruptly, cutting off whatever protest she is about to make, balling his hands into fists to keep them from trembling. "I've got news for you, sweetheart. You've always been this way. You've always been a crazy, controlling—" He swallows the word bitch not quite fast enough. From the look on her face she knows exactly what he was going to say. "—person. And I get it. I do. But you don't get to blame _me_ for it. You just don't."

He's breathing heavily. She's staring at him. And it feels like this odd victory; conclusive; definitive.

The right thing for him to say even if it's ruined them forever.

She stands up slowly and as she steps toward him he has to will himself to stay firmly rooted to the ground. He half expects her to punch him because he's sure she's furious. He's sure that she can't accept this truth for what it is.

Instead, he is shocked when she leans into him, arms folded up between them, resting against his chest, tucking her head under his chin in the way she's always belonged there. He can feel her bare toes curling over his.

He's not sure if it's astonishment or instinct that causes him to slowly wrap his arms around her back.

"You're right," she says. The words stop his heart. He has to strain to hear her. "I've always been a controlling bitch. And we both know why."

He lays his cheek against the top of her head. She's changed shampoos, and he wonders if it's selfish to think that maybe it's because of him.

This one smells like coconut.

"But…" She heaves a big sigh. "But I haven't always been _this way_ with _you_. And maybe…maybe you don't remember, but I do."

She steps back and lifts her eyes to meet his. There are tears in their depths that won't spill over. "Whatever is happening right now is both our faults. And if we're just going to keep blaming each other then we might as well give up now."

She falls against his chest again, and he can feel her breathing him in. It calms him even as her words circle inside of him, trying to draw his anger back to the surface, trying to break this.

He has become so self-destructive.

"I miss my best friend," she whispers, so quietly that he can barely hear her. "I miss him. _I miss you._"

_I'm right here_.

He's not. Not really.

But this is the closest he's felt to his old self in a long, long time.

"Come on," he says. He turns, hand still wrapped around her shoulders, leading her to the bedroom. He's done thinking for tonight. Done fighting. Done trying to figure out if he's right or she is. Done worrying about whether they can fix this or not.

They crawl into bed, foreheads pressed together, arms wrapped around each other, and he's almost asleep when he thinks he hears her whisper, "Come back to me."

When he wakes up in the morning, she's gone.

He keeps breaking…again and again and again…

**v.**

Lonely.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **I am so sorry it's been so long since I've updated! I was enjoying my time off from work, and then traveling the 3000 miles from where my family lives to my home. Needless to say it's been a busy, relaxing, and fun three weeks. I have been going through writing withdrawal, though, so it was nice to get back to this.

Thank you all so, so, so much for the reviews! You'll really never know how much I appreciate hearing what you think. I couldn't ask for more wonderful readers.

Feedback will bring a huge smile to my face.

-Ryeloza


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **Nope. It's still not mine. I also have no claim to the song "Dream a Little Dream of Me."

**A/n: **Hey, remember this fic? Maybe not—it's been so long since I've updated. Ah well, I'm just glad I found the motivation to get back into it.

Feedback will truly be appreciated. Thank you to everyone for your support of this one (and for continuing to read even after all of these months!).

-Ryeloza

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**i.**

"_Stars fading but I linger on dear, still craving your kiss_…"

She sang under her breath, half-humming, and he came up behind her and put his hands on her hips, feeling her smile as she leaned back against his chest. The words faded from her lips, but continued to croon tinny from the radio. They danced motionlessly, entwined as souls far beyond this world.

"I think of you when I hear this song."

She set down the dish she was washing and placed her hands over his, pulling them up and wrapping them around her, soap bubbles clinging to their fingers, and he thought this might be the moment. Might be if he had bought that ring the other day; might be if only he could find the courage for the words.

"_Dream a little dream of me_…"

He wakes in the morning still dreaming of the past, the words in his head and her scent in his sheets.

**ii.**

It feels like weeks of hard work—focusing that anger, letting it become hatred, convincing himself that he didn't need her or miss her—has disappeared in the blink of an eye. Because he can feel her everywhere now that she's been her, an infection that spreads through the entirety of his apartment, seeping into the walls and pouring from the crevices. Even as he showers, he can still feel her on his skin; her touch remains like invisible burns, and it hurts.

He rubs a towel over his hair, ignores the drips of water that trail down his neck into the collar of his shirt, and refuses to look in the mirror because he knows what he'll see—red-rimmed eyes, five o'clock shadow still patchy in the morning light, that deadened look that he's afraid to really examine—before he heads to the kitchen. Breakfast is dreary, tasteless cereal; he gives up halfway through and tosses it down the sink, stands for a moment with his hands against the counter, wondering, quite honestly, if this is the rest of his life.

They can't move on from one another. He could go on to fuck everything in a skirt and she could (_will_) get remarried and still they'll keep colliding like they did last night. Since the start they've been inevitably, irresistibly drawn to one another, and it won't matter how much time passes, if they hate each other or not, they will always, always find some way to satisfy that burning need to be together.

Maybe that's all they were ever meant to be. Two people weaving in and out of each others' lives forever, scorching the world around them every time they met. Never really meant for the long term.

Maybe getting married had defied their fate, and now this is the price they pay.

**iii.**

He's hungover and depressed, so he doesn't bother to pretend that he's better than falling on the couch and watching TV all day, ebbing in and out of the world of consciousness. He has more strange, not-dreams about her, most of them fleeting moments where he holds her and feels more secure than a whole lifetime's worth of certainty. When he wakes, he wonders if he ever really thought that, or if it's something that exists only in the tentative world between sleep and wake.

**iv.**

It is just after seven that he finds the note.

**v.**

That song is haunting him.

He's half-asleep and he thinks he's dreaming, but it's playing in the background of some movie he doesn't remember putting on.

_Just hold me tight and tell me you miss me…_

He believes in fate, but it's a secret. An embarrassment he can't admit because of a life rooted firmly in reality (in parents who were never really happy and whose smiles were always just a little too fake; in a major he picked at random because he had to declare and it seemed safe—so much of his life is rooted in safe; in pretty girlfriends he liked, but never really imagined living forever and ever after with; in a daily routine of family and work and life that was rather unvarying). But even with all of that blandness staring him in the face day after day, he still thought maybe…

Still thinks maybe…

It is centuries of songs and stories and poems that tell him otherwise.

That the boy who grew up imagining true love as a fairy tale, but never took a risk, would choose a path that led to her, and suddenly the world would be alive with passion and purpose and it never felt like a choice because it was meant to be…

Meant to be.

Was it?

_While I'm alone and blue as can be, dream a little dream of me…_

**vi.**

Dream…memory…it persists to an end…

Her hair was twisted up on top of her head, strands falling haphazardly around her face; she wore pajama pants and a tank top; she'd already taken her makeup off. (The physical details cling in his mind, frozen there forever.) Then she turned in his arms and put her hands around his neck, the suds clinging to the hairs at the back of his neck.

And it was the smile she wore. The way she hummed that song. The music in the background. Her tiny kitchen with no dishwasher and the bubbles floating in the sink. The smell of dinner lingering in the room and the lightbulb above them that kept flickering. It was the patch of skin he touched with his fingers where her tank top rode up—warm, smooth skin—and the little scars he could find blind but never heal. The look in her eyes and the feeling he got every time he saw her.

Her.

All of her.

"Lynette?" he said (time wears the dialogue with more gracefulness than he knows he possessed because he remembers the thrumming of his heart in his ears, and he knows he stumbled over the words, stuttering for perfection he could never find).

"Hmm?"

And the million little things in that moment, the ones he would never forget, pulled together and made him forget everything but her and that feeling that he never wanted to spend another minute apart from her. Their love was too overwhelming to comprehend.

(He still can't.)

"I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

And he could see the gasp in her eyes. See that doubt, that hope, that tremulous anticipation. "What?"

"I don't have a ring…I didn't plan this. But I'm too in love with you to go another moment without saying this, and it's probably all wrong..."

"Tom."

"Will you marry me?"

He should have had a ring. A plan. A way to tell her that this wasn't an impulse but fate…

But as those thoughts stretched through the torturous seconds of waiting for her (he'd have waited forever), none of them mattered.

"Yes."

(That is perfect in all of its incarnations forever and ever.)

**vii.**

It is just after seven that he finds the note.

He wakes from that memory to that song and he thinks of fate and her.

It hurts. It hurts like he can't breathe, and he wishes he could just die from the pain.

He stumbles back to the bathroom, seeking out aspirin for the headache he's pretending to have. It's as good an excuse as any to try to relieve an unsoothable pain. As he reaches the medicine cabinet, he has no choice but to face the mirror he's been avoiding because he's scared to see that pain living in his eyes (still doesn't want to acknowledge what it truly is). But instead of a haunted man, he sees the note.

"_The only way I can be sure you'll see it," she laughed_—how many times had she said that to him?

He can still hear the music. _Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you… _And fate…How is this not fate?

He plucks the note from the mirror and pretends his hands aren't trembling.

_Tom,_

_I don't know what to say. I know I shouldn't leave like this, not after everything we did (and didn't) say tonight, but that's the truth. I don't know what to say. I'm trying to figure it out._

_I want to see you again. I want to see you when we're not hurt and angry, but that's probably impossible. I'll settle for sober (last night was a mistake, wasn't it? I shouldn't have come over…not like that). _

_Next Friday…Meet me Radisson on Bleaker St. at eight? You know where._

_If you don't come…Well then I guess there really is nothing left to say._

_-L_

**viii.**

_But in your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me…_


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **Trust me, I do not want to make any claim to the show at this point. Author's notes at end.

**Maelstrom**

By **Ryeloza**

**i.**

After everything, it should be a hard choice.

**ii.**

The note trembles in his hand and without meaning to, he wrinkles it, smearing the delicacy of the ink and the tentativeness of the words. Reluctantly, he raises his eyes to the mirror, and maybe it should scare him that the person facing him is unrecognizable, but it just feels like he's finally seeing the person who overtook his body months ago. Finally giving a face to the foreignness of every thought he's had, action he's taken, choice he's made—because if he's totally honest, he hasn't felt like himself in a long, long time, so _of course_ he doesn't recognize himself in the mirror. _Of course_.

He might be more scared if he did.

"What are you doing?"

His voice is rough as gravel, tight like he hasn't used it in weeks. He shakes his head, opens his mouth to repeat the question, but it dies on his lips as he glances down at the ball of paper wrinkled in his hands.

"What am I doing?" he mutters.

He drops the paper, forgotten on the floor.

**iii.**

He decides to call in sick to work on Monday even though he wakes up in better shape than most nights lately. There is no hangover, no headache, no lingering nausea at just the thought of dragging himself through another day. And even as he picks up the phone, there is no crippling wave of guilt to overtake him for his dishonesty.

When was the last time he enjoyed this job?

The thought flits through his mind haphazardly, and he thinks of private jets and conferences and schmoozing clients with hundred dollar bottles of wine…

It's gone before any one thought forms long enough to paint a memory, and without consciousness, he thinks of the old pizzeria—of the weight of the key in his hand as he locked up for the last time and let out a sigh that had been caught inside of him for years, of the way Lynette thread her fingers through his and squeezed his hand reassuringly, and of how even as everything was ending, none of it felt like regret in that moment of failure. And why? It had been nothing but years of hard work and little money; of stress and tears and long hours; of life and death and everything in between. For a long time after, he was just lost, and he always thought it was because he failed yet again.

Over and over and over…Since he tried to tell his mother the truth about his father's affairs and was met with complete apathy…over and over and over…Math his freshman year of high school…over and over and over…Every fucking job he'd ever made a go at…over and over and over…With Kayla, the restaurant, going back to school…over and over and over, endlessly, until now…

Until now.

He gets Glenn's voicemail, silence stretching after the beep until it's uncomfortable, but that night keeps flashing in his mind—Lynette's hand…the stars…no regret…

"Glenn, it's Tom…" No regret. "…I quit."

And the words stretch out, waiting for something that never comes.

**iv.**

He's packing when Glenn calls back, hurriedly cramming clothes into his suitcases as Glenn begs, bribes, and then angrily hangs up. It's nothing the younger man can understand now, and maybe he never will. Maybe he will never look in the mirror and know that he's become the worst possible version of himself. But Tom has, and right now it feels unfixable, something he can't undo, and some irrational part of him is flying off the handle, cutting off limbs and patching pieces back together in an attempt to create something better. Something stronger.

"I never wanted this job," he'd said right before Glenn hung up.

Truth.

Fact.

When he has packed up the remnants of this life, he leaves and he doesn't look back.

**v.**

He checks into a hotel.

It doesn't feel much different than the apartment.

Smaller.

He tries to figure out his finances, but abandons the job rather quickly. Spends an hour throwing a ball at the wall above his bed and trying to figure out his life. It feels rather like spiraling out of control, and he isn't thinking when he picks up the phone and calls his brother.

They don't know—his siblings. They don't know about the destruction of his marriage or the job or the fact that he has descended so far into hell he no longer knows which way is up. Their conversations are practical: _what do we do about Mom?; is Dad spending Christmas with you this year?; how are the kids?_ Kids raised by parents who always, always pretended everything was okay. But when Peter picks up the phone with his usual perfunctory turn to small talk, Tom feels something inside of him snap and everything falls out, scattering like puzzle pieces he has no idea how to assemble.

"And I have no idea what to do," he finishes.

Peter is quiet, and his mind wanders to the day his brother came home from college and yelled at him for touching his comic book collection.

"Tom."

"Yeah?"

"Go home."

And he wants to say _I can't_. He wants to say _Did you listen to a word I said? _He wants to spit out any of a million excuses he has on hand, but for some reason, he doesn't.

"This isn't about a job. You can work anywhere. A job is just a job. You're miserable because you're not with your family."

"Maybe I am."

It's the closest he's come to admitting it.

It doesn't fix anything.

**vi.**

The week slips by monotonously. He orders room service. Watches TV. Makes a halfhearted effort to go over their finances and figure out what kind of hole he's dug himself by quitting. Doesn't leave the hotel.

On Thursday morning, his brother-in-law calls and offers him a job managing the new store he's opening. Blatant nepotism aside, it's a step down in every way—less pay, less prestige, no perks—and it's only peripherally related to anything he's ever done. And still, as Shawn lays the entire offer out in terms that are based solely in reality and have nothing to do with glamour or persuasion or hype, Tom feels grounded for the first time in a long time.

Impulse. Feeling. The best decisions of his life have been made following his gut, and so he doesn't think.

He accepts, and tries to envision himself running a flower shop.

**vii.**

Friday night. 7:55. His hotel room. He stares out the window at the night sky and wonders if it is possible to save a sinking ship.

**viii.**

He thinks of telling her he quit the job she wanted him to take so badly, even though he's slowly realizing that none of this was ever about the job.

He thinks of saying he's sorry. He is. For a lot of things.

He thinks of asking her if she thinks she can change. If she can give up some of that control. If they can go back to making decisions together instead of separately. If they can be a team again instead of enemies. Because she is right—it hasn't always been like this, and it wasn't so long ago that she held his hand and told him that she loved him and believed in him as _he_ made a choice.

He thinks of holding her hand again.

He thinks of asking her if he can come home.

He thinks of telling her that he has changed. He _has_ changed. Not back to his old self because he has destroyed himself too completely to remember how to go back. But he's not the man who left her at the beginning of the summer either.

He thinks of asking her if she can love this new version of him.

He thinks of telling her how much he loves her. Has loved her from the first moment he saw her.

And maybe it all needs to be said, but yes, he thinks—he'll start with that.

**ix.**

After everything, it should be a hard choice.

But it's not.

_**-Fin-**_

* * *

><p><strong>An: **I really want to thank all of my wonderful reviewers. It is because of you guys that I came back and finished up this story. I want to thank you for all of your endless support because without it, I wouldn't have written so much in this fandom.

I can't say definitively if this will be my last _Desperate Housewives_ fic or not, but as many of you have probably noticed, my passion and enthusiasm for writing in this fandom has petered out over the past few months. I felt the need to at least finish this fic, and as much as I'd like to promise that I'll finish my other WIPs as well, I can't guarantee it. I do apologize for that, as I know how frustrating it is to see fic go unfinished.

A million thanks to you all. If you have a minute, please let me know what you thought of the ending. It would still mean the world to me to hear your thoughts.

-Ryeloza


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